Fix You
by The Baker Street Irregular
Summary: As a child, he often imagined that if he could play the violin rather beautifully…all the ails of the world would disappear. Now, Sherlock wonders if something as simple as music spun from words unspoken, have the power to save even a single man... Asexual Johnlock! TW, for PTSD, and self-harm references


"Children have this tremendous ability to feel, terribly intensely...In a way, they feel more intensely because they have learned to live with what they cannot change, to live with the injustices of the world."

Mycroft's condescending gaze belittles his younger brother as he speaks double entendres towards John, who unknowingly, has just entered into the tightly wound tension of 221B.

Mycroft Holmes was in the habit of surrounding himself with a powerful aura. Unfortunately, for those who surrounded him, it meant the loss of it. A tempo of violin notes pluck through the ensued silence. Sherlock has retreated into the recesses his mind; however, insists on continuously glaring towards the armchair where his older brother rests.

* * *

For any child, the idea of powerlessness is an absolutely impossible thought to live with. For the young Sherlock Holmes, however, who refused to hold any sense of resignation in the slightest, it was a vicious darkness which poisoned the edges of his existence and would have destroyed him, had he not met his muse.

**Violin: **from Italian violino, diminutive of viola. Derived from vitula, the Roman goddess of Joy. The word itself, found it's foundation in Latin -vitularia, meaning "To exhault, or rejoice." Latin root vi for "Light, or Life."

The Distant Indo-European roots viol, from vis ... violencemeaning "an act which signifies of a source of strength and power." Demonstrated in 'violate " a transgression of barriers using strength or power." Most likely, it was a hegemonic correlation of the divine qualities of a God and their ability to act however they saw fit, regardless of societal convention…

**Neat.  
**

A violin empowered the child's small innocuous form with music, and Sherlock was bestowed with the voice of a god. When he composed, he prophesied. Sacred hymns and visions as vivid as Sarasate's Fantasie and Bach's Chaconne.

Divinity transgressed, Sherlock illuminated his mind and brought order to the swirling chaos within it. The violin was a stage where each note, an actor which merely danced it's life. He could set free the raw bursting emotion bottled up in his small form. Sometimes the tangible existence of his emotions were beautiful and serene, other times, he found himself quite violently but beautifully all the same, destroying that serenity with meaningless eardrum-splitting-jargon emitted from vibrating discords. He felt powerful.

It was in the power of this divine language, that Sherlock finally grasped control over his chaotic emotions. Meditative concentration was required to handle sound in such a way that allowed the vibrational frequency of a note to cut cleanly through space and time, and Sherlock tugged at strings of fate with a slight intervention of his waving hand. Complex patterns wove, spiraled into the irrational infinite of phi. A perfect sacred geometry in motion. The secrets of the universe were swirling at his calloused fingertips.

And that had become the universal truth of his childhood. Sherlock Holmes had become his own higher power, if only to save himself.

* * *

When it comes to Mycroft, however, Sherlock refuses to play at all. The emotion he presents to his brother, is a few clear notes surfacing through the building white noise of his mind.

The ulterior motives of Mycroft Holmes never actually needed suspicion to begin with. They are often paraded on display as some nationalistic status-symbol of sorts. Queen and Country and all that. Sherlock, however, somewhat perplexed suspected that the modus operandi of his brother's visit to 221B Baker Street on this particular day, was not, as he so fantastically claimed, "To pay a long overdue visit to his dear brother, and enjoy Mrs. Hudson's still unrivaled tea." but quite literally, actually, in some peculiar way, **was**, given some perversion of the english language as well as societal convention that almost always accompanies Mycroft.

If Big brother was always watching which, when it came to Sherlock, he most assuredly was, It was inevitable that the older Holmes become aware of the recently acquired secrets of 221B, which for all intents and purposes, would have remained locked behind the emerald door. But finding secrets, after all, was Mycroft's particular cup of tea, as was gossiping with Mrs. Hudson, and the older sibling had personally visited Sherlock and John to form his own opinion over the matter of the information that was recently acquired. Mycroft will never admit openly or honestly, instead his smile reflects Sherlock's glare, and the older brother turns his head towards John with a slight chuckle, humor masking the carefully coded information beneath it.

"As a child, he often imagined that if he could play the violin rather beautifully…all the ails of the world would simply disappear."

Sherlock's fingers wrap a bit more securely around the instrument held before him as if it were a shield. Silently, his eyes fall in a moment of unplaced sadness while distant memories of his childhood surface within the walls of his mind palace and filter across the windows of his eyes. Mycroft's grip tightens around his umbrella, thumb clawing at the handle before continuing. Although reminiscing times past, his voice speaks into the present, specifically towards John, who at the current moment hovers within the framework of the open door, unsure of where or how to step into the potential minefield.

"Very childish idea…**Very **naive…-"

John glances just in time to catch Sherlock's minuscule betrayal of emotion. He has seen it before. Reoccurring pain and sadness from a lifetime of experiences which have tried to contain his friend into a socially constructed idea of normalcy. He watches the terribly intense emotion flicker across his flatmate's features for all but a half second but he sees it all the same. Overcast eyes which realize that this instance is yet another reminder, that despite his best efforts he has been powerless to change certain forces and circumstance which surround him.

John's blood boils in proper anger for his friend. His fists clench as he clears his throat to make sure Mycroft's attention undivided towards him.

"Yeah. Not sure if you noticed but…Sherlock remains childish as ever."

Sherlock's face snaps towards the authoritative voice in alarm. His eyes widen, then narrow in sudden confusion towards the compliment-insult hybrid. Where is John going with this? John sidesteps, his hand holding the open door to the older Holmes. It isn't a suggestion.

"He, in fact, does play rather beautifully-"

"John."

John ignores Sherlock's warning and continues to pick a fight in lieu of the detective, reacting towards the confrontation in a way that years military training have drilled him to respond. His voice steadily climbs as he stomps his right foot firmly into the ground. A purposeful gesture demonstrating the full-range use of his leg.

"…and if I mean anything close to the world to him…all my ails have vanished, thank you…So there."

John's realization of word choice causes his argument lose steam, while Sherlock holds his tongue and looks away from the doctor's diagnosis. Mycroft's mouth drops a bit at John's borderline confession, but he quickly recovers. His eyebrows lift in a sarcastically teasing smile towards Baker Street's irregulars.

"…and so it seems the 'world' is safe again, thanks to 'The Great Sherlock Holmes.'"

With a swing of his umbrella, the British gentleman in the finely tailored suit stands, turning to show himself towards the exit. John much too quickly slams the door behind the government official.

With a sigh, John circles back into the sitting room, observing his flatmate in an attempt to assesses the damage of wearing his heart obviously-on-sleeve for battle. Sherlock, who would run towards the literal heart on a sleeve, is all but apathetic towards the figurative witnessing of it. Instead, he chooses to tease John on another matter entirely,

"You're the one who fancies yourself a doctor, not me."

"But you-"

"A psychosomatic limp does not count, John, as I cannot cure what does not exist to begin with." Sherlock tends to speak arsenic when his mood has been tested, and Mycroft tests his mood to maximum capacity. Although fully aware of this fact, John's adrenaline causes his frustrated response to have a sharper influx of emotion than he intends it to.

"No Sherlock. Last week. The nightmares. Every Night Sherlock. Every night you played in the sitting room until I fell asleep, and don't pretend it was unintentional. You started the bloody 'experiment' the night after…"

John realizes where the conversation is headed, and abruptly stops himself. Sherlock, now interested, perks up in his chair, eyes intently fixed on John. John looks around the room for a moment, then after deciding that escape is rather futile with upset-Sherlock's venomous stare, he takes a deep breath to prepare himself. Swallowing his rising emotions, he leans on the backside of the door to brace himself against the desire to avoid this conversation altogether. Staring at the ceiling, he palms his hand over his face while he reconstructs the sentence in his mind to avoid calling attention to certain aspects, which he would rather like to avoid in the current tension.

"...That night when I woke up, afraid for my life. Irrational...and in tears, vomiting on the sofa trying to get a bloody glass of water..."

"I didn't think you remembered that one."

"Well I did. I didn't want to talk to you about it." John admits. Sherlock's reply is cold, laced with a hidden anger.

"Do you remember me having to restrain you fro-"

"-Yeah, Sherlock. Listen..." John decides to cut to the chase. He has been meaning to find the courage bring it up once and once only, because he needed to make something absolutely clear to his friend before burying the memory beneath the wallpapered walls of their flat.

"I'm sorry...What you had to do... Thank you. No one should ever have to - But you did. You're a true friend, Sherlock."

John nods in finality. As far as he is concerned, that is all the conversation they will ever need to have. He straightens his back, and squares his shoulders a bit as if the gesture will capture the remnants of his pride before they can slip away. He avoids Sherlock's accusing gaze, and promptly changes the subject, reasserting his point from earlier in some small attempt at flattery. His voice is now much quieter, the surge of adrenaline having left him in an honest wake of shame and vulnerability.

"...And you do play beautifully, Sherlock…you really do."

Sherlock, is unsure of how to respond to the fragile words emitted from John, as his diminished voice threatens to break. Sherlock had wondered if John actually remembered the climactic events following his category four nightmare. Since he does, Sherlock supposes that John still needs some time to pass, in order to fully regain control over himself; emotionally, mentally and physically. This therefore, concludes the spectrum of emotions on display today. John's obvious attempt at diffusing Sherlocks foul mood, proves somewhat successful, causing Sherlock to reward John's last-ditch efforts, with a smile.

"Thank you, John."

"That song you've been playing. I've heard it before."

"I composed it, Though 'cover' would be the more mainstream term as I used a song in popular culture as the foundation for my composition. The final part as well as the intermissions are entirely of my own creation. I felt a cover was necessary as the meaning and concept of the song was well placed, and the while the song itself is dull and boring, the normalcy of the contemporary song was exactly what I needed, because I was writing this song in particular for-"

Sherlock's fingers briefly panic and clutch at the power placed within his Violin. He hears himself rambling to John, sharing much more information than is necessary for a statement, which had not even warranted a response to begin with.

"The name, Sherlock, not the creative process."

"It's called "Fix you."


End file.
